


Unspoken Nights

by hunted



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: "girl knows what she wants and boy howdy does she take it", Adult Characters (Aged 21 or Older), Affairs, Age Difference, Cheating, Clothed Sex, Consensual Kink, Creampie, Danger, Dirty Talk, Doggy Style, Dominance, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Infidelity, Missionary Position, Not Beta Read, Older Man/Younger Woman, Penis In Vagina Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Play, Rape Fantasy, Rape Roleplay, Rough Sex, Royalty, Size Difference, Size Kink, Submission, Timeline What Timeline, Under-negotiated Kink, Vaginal Sex, Verbal Humiliation, alternative description
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:48:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27694382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hunted/pseuds/hunted
Summary: Geralt fucks a girl.....All of the necessary warnings are tagged, as Geralt and the girl have rough sex, and explore some dark kinks. Despite that, all of the fucking in this story is ultimately consensual. But please do not read this fic if you might be distressed by it.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 131





	Unspoken Nights

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  Obligatory disclaimer... For information about rape roleplay desires among women, please see [this article](https://metro.co.uk/2017/11/29/why-do-half-of-women-have-fantasies-about-being-raped-7099630/). For BDSM resources, please see [this page](http://bdsmwiki.info/BDSM_101), [this article](https://hellsc.com.au/safe-and-kinky/), and do your own Googling. Always remember that rough roleplay isn't for everyone, and that consent comes first above all else. Safewords, prior discussion, and an understanding of your own mental health is necessary to have fulfilling, enjoyable rough sex. My stories are fictional sexual fantasies, and don't always reflect the thorough kink negotiation that should precede a scene such as this. Stay safe, stay horny!!   
> 

Geralt knew what he was to her.

He was the golden-eyed mystery, the travelling brute she longed to be conquered by, and to conquer. She was used to ownership, enjoyed having lovers wherever and however she pleased, but they couldn’t give her what he could. Her husband didn’t care that she slept with other men, their marriage a thing of convenience and social standing, rather than a union of affection. The village boys, the aristocrats, the poets, the merchants—none of them could give her what he could. The bandits were lower than common folk, filthy degenerates that she couldn’t trust in the same way that she could trust him. He walked the line between deranged and civilized, blood on his hands, words curt and gruff. He offered no explanations, no flowery prose, no lingering affection or dramatic overtures of love. She was afraid of him, but she liked that. She liked that he was an animal as much as he was a man, liked that he was as comfortable making his bed from dirt as he would be silk sheets. She liked his scarred body, the terrain of him so brutally butchered by experiences she would never have. She enjoyed touching violence for a time, and being touched by it.

Geralt enjoyed her submissiveness.

He knew her name, though barely. He didn’t care to remember it with any permanence. He had hunted a rogue nekker for her husband, bored and efficient, returning with the creature’s head held in one hand. He had dropped it at her husband’s feet, face flat with boredom and disinterest, lips tightening almost imperceptibly at the edges when the lesser man squealed and stepped backwards.

“By golly, man,” he had protested, “I must have the servants clean the floors now. You boor!”

“A boor,” Geralt agreed flatly, “But an efficient one. Pay up.”

The husband, red-faced and humiliated, had rushed off to find coin. Behind him, where she stood so often to observe and calculate, had waited a fair-haired maiden. She had been wearing an emerald green dress which hugged her figure, curls of pale yellow spilling about her shoulders and slender neck. She had been smiling, amused by her husband’s easily threatened manhood, seeing Geralt’s amusement where others might have missed it.

“I apologise for my husband’s squeamishness.”

Those words, softly spoken yet offered with such assertiveness, had told Geralt all he needed to know about this woman. He had leaned back against the wall behind him, crossing his arms.

“Husband,” he’d noted quietly, “Thought he was your father.”

The woman had smiled wider still. Geralt had been impressed. She was young, but she was smart. She saw her husband as a tool, which was likely how he viewed her, too. The uniting of two warring families, perhaps. She had been born into this role, and she was going to benefit from it long after her husband had gone to his grave.

“The wolf has bite,” she’d murmured, stepping gracefully forward, “Are ladies often offended by your words?”

He hadn’t moved, eyes fixed unblinkingly on hers. She had skin like buttermilk, eyes like church windows. There were no imperfections to catch the light in her irises, the safety of a privileged life keeping her tender as a lamb. She didn't know suffering, didn't know pain. She didn't know the life of her subjects, of harder women, of poor girls and the plight of a villager during wartime. She was as tempting as she was amusing. Geralt was keenly aware of the gulf between their experiences. But he was also aware of her body, her young breasts, what was hidden beneath that dress. So he figured there was little point lamenting her sheltered privilege. Carnality was carnality. No matter who was involved.

“Some ladies, sure.”

“Well, I am not all ladies,” she’d replied, stepping closer still.

“Who are you, then?”

“Abbi.”

“A nickname, huh. Awful improper of you, Princess.”

“I don’t want you to call me Princess,” she’d whispered, “I want you to see me as nothing more than a girl.”

“Why’s that?” He asked, even though he already knew. Her heart was humming like a tiny bird’s, her thin frame trembling with desire for him.

“I find you delightful.”

“Delightful, huh?”

“Yes.”

“Like a fucking dancing monkey?”

A flush had risen to her cheeks, excitement sparking in her eyes as his gruff, cold voice relayed a curse her husband dared never utter.

“I didn’t seek to offend you. No, I find you delightful as a man. As a creature of power. I want you to…”

Her voice had trailed off, her husband’s quick footsteps approaching down a marble hall. The girl’s face had become more alert. She knew her husband, despite his generous tolerance for mutual infidelity, would not allow her to be fucked by a man who had only so recently fucked his ego.

“The inn by the river,” she had whispered, before stepping abruptly away from him, “Ask for the yellow room.”

Then, her husband had entered. Geralt had taken the coin, weighed it in his palm, staring down at the husband and watching him shrink in humiliated fear. He had proclaimed the amount satisfactory and, with one final glance at the young woman, had left the grand estate.

That had been their first meeting.

***

Tonight, he was meeting her for the sixth time.

He walked into the yellow room. Their room. It was simple and without flair, the innkeepers unaware that they were catering for royalty. The walls were plain, once-vibrant yellow paint now faded and chipped. A vase of dying flowers sat on the bedside table. This was how the girl liked it, and Geralt liked it this way too. He enjoyed seeing her here. Slumming it.

She stood by the bed, hands folded, hair undone around her shoulders. She wore a plain, poorly stitched dress. It was blue, dark against her pale skin. She looked lovely. Innocent as the first night they had spent together, chaste as a virgin. It was an act, but not entirely. The way she looked at him, nervous and anticipatory and expectant, couldn’t be faked. There wasn’t a prostitute in the world who could look at him the way little Abbi did. She was afraid of him, and she wanted him despite—or, because of—that fear. She would rule a kingdom someday, but not tonight. Tonight, she was just a girl.

He closed the door behind him. She waited, and he could hear her pulse sprinting, hastened by the exquisite mix of fear and arousal which only he could provide her.

“Were you followed?”

She shook her head, swallowing thickly. “No.”

He nodded, striding across the room toward her. He still wore his full armour and swords, slow footsteps heavy against creaking floorboards. Without announcing his actions or prefacing them with gentleness, he took her shoulders and turned her towards the bed. A palm between her shoulder blades sent her sprawling forward, hands flying out to catch herself on the mattress. Her inhalations came quicker and with urgency, breasts pressing against the neckline of her dress, waves of brilliant hair hanging down past her face. With one hand, he lifted the hem of her dress, bunching it up against the small of her back. Exposing her. With his other hand, movements deft and purposeful, he undid the buttons of his trousers. He nudged her foot with his own, and she obediently widened her stance.

She stayed where she was, face lowered, quivering. Geralt could see that she was wet already, the insides of her thighs glistening, skin moistened by her eagerness. He took the base of his cock in hand, pressed the head against her cunt.

“Oh,” she whimpered, _“Oh,”_

He pushed in. Her body widened to accommodate him, inches of flesh disappearing into her silky heat. He didn’t need to be brutal about it, not yet. That would come soon, but not immediately. He would pound her like an animal, ruthlessly and violently, but penetration could hurt women in ways that did not turn him on. He wanted his lovers to be comfortable in their total subjugation. He would hurt her, oh yes. But only as much as he knew she would enjoy.

She made small, broken sounds as he forced himself deeper within her. He held onto her waist and continued his invasion of her small body. They didn’t speak. There was no submissiveness greater than the one which was accompanied by total silence. She bowed before him, low and reverent as her subjects bowed to her, legs parted like some common farmhand being taken behind the barn. Her feet shifted against the floor. She was fighting the instinctual urge to lean away from the penetration.

He was soon engulfed by her, the front of his pelvis pressed snugly against the smooth, blemishless curve of her ass. She took shaky, unsteady breaths. He hummed, satisfied. He stayed there for a while, pressing hard against the deepest part of her cunt, the spot which was most sensitive, most tender. She was impaled where she stood.

"You're so tight."

She shuddered. He could tell she felt humiliated by such comments, and that she liked it. He began to withdraw his cock, slowly once more. Painstakingly.

"Ah... Ah...!" With every minute shift, she seemed to quiver more, lips parted to expel helpless groans. Her pale brows were drawn together in a desperate frown, her eyes squeezed shut.

He pulled almost entirely out, the head of his cock tugging at the outer ring of her soaking wet hole. He hadn't been lying, she was tight. But that was just because of her age and her size. The girth and heft of him was a hair's breadth away from being too big to fit inside her. But she was aroused and loosened, enough that he knew she wanted it, she was ready for what would come next. What she had come here seeking. The unspoken violence which they dared not name, and which therein, retained all its power.

He shoved deep inside her.

"Ah- Aaah!" The girl cried out, slender fingers gripping the bed linen. He reached below her willowy frame to feel her breasts, grope at the neckline of her dress, feel it slipping enough to reveal a pink nipple. He fucked into her again, felt her breast as it jiggled in his palm. There was nothing he loved more than the soft tits of a pretty girl. So, he did it again, and again, and again. Pounding her now, all patience abandoned. She made hitched, desperate sounds.

"You came here in just this dress, huh? No underwear?"

"Y- Yes," She nodded, almost sobbing from the pleasure, face pinched.

"Dirty little girl."

***

He fucked her hard.

As the heat built inside him, boiling and unstoppable, he pulled his cock suddenly out of her. He grabbed her and threw her down onto the bed, where she landed on her back with a surprised yelp. He was on top of her immediately, holding her legs apart, pushing inside her once more. She gasped, pale hair spilling where she had fallen, mouth open wide.

"Wanna see you," he'd explained, grunting the words, "when I come inside you."

She had blushed so prettily, whimpering. The bedposts were slamming against the wall, a _bang, bang, bang,_ which other guests could certainly hear. It turned Geralt on, knowing others could hear what was happening in this room, hear the high-pitched pleas of a young girl, the deep growls of a stronger man. He knew she liked it, too. She touched herself, the neckline of her dress utterly askew now. She looked debauched, violated, thoroughly fucked. If only her kingdom could see her now.

"Stop," she whispered, but he knew her pleas to be false. She didn't want to resist, not properly. Fighting back was a means to an end; she sought to be restrained, to be forced, to be taken and bred.

She reached up and tried to push him off her, weak hands against his chest. He ignored her, still holding her legs open, pounding into her cunt. She was so wet, hot and silky around him.

"Stop," she whispered again, voice trembling, "Stop it,"

"Gonna come," he'd huffed, "Gonna come."

He didn't know whether she was aware that he was infertile, that he couldn't put a child in her belly. They'd never discussed it. And, as he looked down into her eyes, he liked to imagine that the danger excited her. Princess Abbi was renowned for her strength, the fierceness which made trainers and court knights wary to teach her combat. She could have fought him off with earnestness, but she just lay there, breasts bouncing as he fucked her. She panted, shaking her head.

"No, no," she gasped, "Don't come inside me, don't..."

She arched off the bed, whining in protest, fists hammering against his sternum. He pistoned his hips back and forth, grunting. He bowed over her, feeling like an animal, like a beast rutting on a forest floor somewhere. Hair spilled about her face, blonde and fine, her young cheeks smooth and unscarred. What a monster he was. A monster she had so passionately sought.

"No," she said again, voice lilting with heavy desire now, the protest serving only to further her arousal, "Don't, please, don't do it-"

"Maybe your husband will find out," Geralt huffed, "Maybe he'll find us here. Find you on your back, getting fucked by some mutant."

She quivered. He pounded into her hard, more brutally than ever before. She flailed for stability, hands flying out to grasp desperately at the mattress.

"No, no- no, don't, please, please don't, stop-"

"Gonna tell your husband. Show him your ruined cunt. Show him what it means to be married to a whore like you."

"No, no, no-"

"Such a pretty little thing. Couldn't satisfy you, could he? You slut." The words were cruel, and not his own. Her demands had been breathy and brief, exchanged by the pillow the last time they met like this. Degradation was what she liked. It helped that he liked, it too. Even if the words had tasted strange, the first time he dared speak them.

He held her down, fingers gripping her upper arms, denting bruises into young, supple skin. She could do little more than take the punishment, his cock repeatedly forced inside her, the slick channel of her body painted with their combined fluids. She'd have to wear longer sleeves.

"Gonna come," he told her again, "Fuck, yeah. Gonna come."

She looked dazed. Such a pretty little thing, so broken and vulnerable.

"No..."

"Yeah, yeah, fuck,"

"Don't, please... please...!"

She closed her eyes when he reached his climax, finding hers silently as he fucked her with furious force. Her slender knees were folded either side of his bulk, framing him as he bore down, hunching over her. His hips spasmed as he buried himself deep inside her.

He stayed there for a while.

When he pulled out, she whimpered. He tucked himself away, and in an instant, appeared entirely collected and unaffected. She lay on her back still, breathing heavily. The base of her dress was rucked up above her waist, her cunt exposed. Her breasts were showing too, sloping gently to the side, supple and soft. He looked down at her for a while, struck by her beauty. She smiled, face slick with sweat, white seed spilling from her body. Surprising himself, he reached down and straightened her dress, tugging it down to cover her thighs, taking the crumpled neckline and pulling it upwards to conceal her chest. She allowed him to do this, watching through pale lashes.

"My, my," she murmured, "not so much of a monster after all."

He offered her an odd, stilted smile in return, unused to the expression. He didn't have much cause to smile, of late. So much death and destruction and pain. But the way she looked at him, as though he had fulfilled her deepest desires, made him feel warm and content. The sex helped, too.

"Will you be staying much longer?"

"Not sure," Geralt admitted, still standing over her, "There's always more monsters to kill."

She considered that. "Will you come back to visit me?"

"Dunno."

She pushed herself up off the bed, somewhat wobbly on her feet after being so ruthlessly fucked. Geralt's eyes slid closed when she stepped forward and kissed him, stretching up onto her toes so that their lips could meet. The violence of their lovemaking had so abruptly disappeared, replaced by something far more honest. It was awkward and delightful.

"I'll await you," she told him in a delighted whisper, "Whenever, wherever you find me. Take me to a secluded room. Ruin me. Just like this. Force me onto the floor. Fuck me hard."

Despite his very recent climax, heat burst inside Geralt's gut, his blood boiling with arousal. But she stepped away from him, crossed the room to collect her cloak from a rack by the door. She wore it over her wrinkled dress in an effort to conceal her identity.

"Goodbye, mutant," she said, words laced with a thick irony that betrayed her affection for him. She didn't think of him as a mutant, not really. "Someday, I hope to see you again."

Then, she walked out.


End file.
